


Here's Some Advice

by shesasurvivor (starkist)



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Canon Compliant, F/M, Gen, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-20
Updated: 2013-10-20
Packaged: 2017-12-29 23:42:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1011477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starkist/pseuds/shesasurvivor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Haymitch Abernathy has spent over 25 years acting as mentor to frightened children, but when it comes down to it, there's only one piece of advice that matters: stay alive. Oneshot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Here's Some Advice

**Author's Note:**

  * For [deathmallow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/deathmallow/gifts).



> Happy birthday to my good friend, Deathmallow! This fic was written especially for her. Be sure to check her own work out; it's honestly some of the absolute best Hunger Games fic out there!
> 
> Thanks, as always, to feeding-geese for her help with this story.

Haymitch had done it. He had managed to outplay the competition of forty-seven other tributes, outwitting the final girl from one with that trick with the forcefield. He knew from the look in her eyes in those final foresaken minutes that she had thought she’d outlasted him. The ax came bouncing back so quickly, she had  barely had time to register that she was wrong.

 

Haymitch had won the Fiftieth Annual Hunger Games.

 

The thought flashed through his mind briefly as the hovercraft appeared, and he grasped the nearest rung of the ladder that had been lowered for him. Later, he would have to face that same stupid audience again, put up some act about how honored he was to be crowned Victor of the biggest Hunger Games yet. Maybe they would react the same way to his brutal honesty as they had before the Games, mistakenly taking his blatant disdain for them as endearing comedy. Maybe they would celebrate it even more, because after all, he was a Victor, and the Capitol loved its victors more than it loved an excuse to party. Of course, crowning a new victor was cause for the biggest party of the year, as far as they were concerned.

 

After it was all over, Haymitch would return home to Twelve at last. He would greet his mother and brother, and his girl, wanting to return to his quiet, normal life again more than anything. He would try. But two weeks later, they would all be dead, a message from Snow himself. Remember your place, or this is what happens. They would be gone, and so would his old life with them.

 

But that would all happen later. For now, Haymitch held as tightly to the ladder as he could with one hand, the other desperately trying to keep his intestines from spilling out to the ground. As soon as he got out of this arena, he would be dealt with.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Who knew how much time had gone by? It could have been months; it could have been years. Haymitch stopped paying attention about two months after they had all been murdered in cold blood. “Murder” was such a risky word for it, even in thought, but it’s how Haymitch labeled it nonetheless. There was no other way to spin it.

 

He had gone out into public less and less after they had been taken, choosing instead to hole himself up into that nice little museum of a house he had been “rewarded” with in Victors Village. Only one other person had ever lived there, the only other person from 12 to have ever won the Games. He had died well before Haymitch was reaped, though, which meant that it had been up to Haymitch entirely to get himself out of that arena. Somehow, he had managed it, but he wasn’t sure he had been the true winner of the Games in the end.

 

Haymitch didn’t quite remember when the phone call had come, just that it had come some time before the victory tour--there were a lot of things that ran together for him now, a lot of things he willingly blacked out in his memory. But he did remember that phone call, because for some reason, it had come as a surprise for him. He was expected to act as mentor to this year’s District 12 tributes. He wasn’t sure why this had come as such a shock for him, because in retrospect it only made sense. He may have been out of the running for reaping, but he would be a prominent part of the Games for the rest of his life.

 

At first he thought it might not be so bad. After all, he had won his Games with no mentor, and with twice as many tributes. If he could do that, guiding other tributes should come easily enough, right? It was only when he got sight of the tributes that year, a boy and a girl who were both from the Seam, and both smaller than average due to a lifetime of malnourishment, did he realize that like--anything related to the Games or the Capitol--it wouldn’t be as easy as he had hoped.

 

The boy died at the bloodbath. The girl lasted two days, then died from eating a poisonous plant. He supposed the edible plants exercise in training hadn’t been her strong point.

 

Haymitch slumped into a seat at the immense bar held in the posh room the tribute teams used to watch the Games. His own tributes were gone, and almost pathetically so at that. Perhaps it was pointless, but Haymitch couldn’t help blaming himself. After all, it was his job to get them out of there..

 

“Here.” A bottle of beer had been planted in front of him, and Haymitch looked up into the understanding eyes of Chaff, a mentor from Eleven who had won only a few years before him. “You’re going to need this,” the other man said.

 

Haymitch brought the bottle to his lips, and washed the future of fallen tributes from his mind.

  
  
  
  
  
  


He should have known it was too good to be true. In seventy-four years of the Hunger Games, not a single exception like this had ever been made before. It would be giving too much to the districts to allow this rule change to remain in place all the way to the end, too much hope; too much power. The districts had to remember who was really in charge.

 

But Haymitch had seen the looks in their eyes as Claudius Templesmith announced only one winner would be allowed after all, and he couldn’t deny the disappointment he felt, no matter how stupid it had been of him to think they might actually pull it off. “Here’s some advice. Stay alive,” he had told them. And they had. The pair of fighters he had been given that year had made it all the way to the final two spots of the Games.  If he believed in them, Haymitch might have thought it was a miracle. But there were no miracles in Panem.

 

Haymitch could barely stand to watch the rest of it play out. As the kid rambled something up on the screen, he put his hand out to catch the attention of the bar tender. He had stayed good on his promise to remain sober long enough to help them win the Games, but even after twenty-four years of watching tribute after tribute die, this was too much for Haymitch to handle on his own.  Besides, either way, he would be bringing a tribute home to Twelve at last.

 

But as the bartender sat the frosty bottle down in front of him, something on the screen caught his eye. The two stood with their backs to each other, each holding a handful of something in one hand, and grasping the other’s free hand.

 

“Hold them out. I want everyone to see,” the kid said. As they did, she counted to three, and then both popped the berries in their mouths. Then the frantic voice of Claudius Templesmith cut through, begging them to stop. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he had said, “I am pleased to present the victors of the Seventy-fourth Hunger Games, Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark! I give you -- the tributes of District Twelve!”

 

The bottle sat on the bartop, forgotten. Noise erupted all around him, and people seemed to be saying things to him. What it was, he wasn’t sure, but it didn’t matter, because the only thought that registered in his mind was that he had to get down to the landing pad when they were brought in from the arena. They’d done it. They had won the Games and made history by being the first pair of victors to emerge from the same arena ever. Haymitch was proud; he was even relieved.

 

But most of all, Haymitch was concerned. Because Katniss would have no idea what she had unleashed with that trick with the berries.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


The victory tour had been a mess. Neither one of them wanted to be there, but that was nothing new. No victor liked their own victory tour, save for maybe those careers from One and Two, who had considered winning the Games to be the ultimate achievement in life. But outside of them, Haymitch didn’t know a single victor who actually enjoyed the forced tour of the nation that served as a reminder that they were never out of the shadow of the Games, packaged cleverly as a celebration for the winner from the year previous. But once she had realized they were doomed to play out the forced romance for the rest of their lives, the mood had soured drastically. Despite the fact that they seemed to have finally made up from the cold distance they had held from each other ever since returning home to Twelve. Despite the fact that they were sleeping together.

 

Haymitch doubted they were truly sleeping together in the most commen sense of the word -- she was much too afraid of intimacy for that. Not that he blamed her, or was even really in a place to judge her. But they were sharing a bed. The Capitol attendants had noticed first, and gossip spread quickly on something as small as a train. Even one of the fancy ones the Capitol used for the tour.  He first learned of it when Effie came to him for advice, flustered over such a potential scandal.

 

“They’re in love,” he had told her, putting his feet up on the coffee table and taking a swig of the whiskey. “What do you want me to do about it?” He knew it wasn’t true--not entirely, at least. But the act was important, and if they were  going to get out of this with as many lives in tact as possible, they all had to play it up as much as they could.

 

“Well, it’s improper!” Effie huffed indignantly. She was like a little child, upset that they hadn’t gotten their way. Haymitch could almost see her stamping her feet. The vision gave him a good chuckle, which only made Effie’s frown deepen.

 

“Talk to them, if it bothers you so much,” he told her with a shrug and went back to his drink. When it became obvious she would get nowhere with him, Effie sulked out, mumbling something under her breath. Haymitch had to laugh. Later, he would find out that she had, in fact, spoken to them about it. Imagining how awkward that conversation must have been became an endless source of amusement for Haymitch.

 

He would get his a few days later, though, when an interviewer in the Capitol cornered him for an exclusive. “Is there any truth to the rumors that you and District 12 escort Effie Trinket are an item?” the bubbly reporter asked.

 

“Of course not!” Haymitch barked in response. He wanted to throw up in his mouth at even the thought of it. He had grown somewhat fond of the fussy woman over the years, but at the most, she was like a pesky little sister. And that was being generous. Effie Trinket was the last woman in Panem that Haymitch wanted a romantic relationship with.

 

After suffering through a few more senseless questions (how did he feel about the new mockingjay trend that had seized the nation?), he had managed to escape. The big event was about to start, and Haymitch had to be on full alert for this one. There was no telling how Snow would take the proposal. Sure, he might put up a good show of happiness over it for the cameras. But Haymitch knew Snow too well by now to know it would be his only reaction. He may have had Katniss running in circles in a useless attempt to appease him, but Haymitch knew better.

 

Haymitch was right.

  
  
  
  
  
  


This whole thing had been a nightmare. And that was saying a lot, since Haymitch was no stranger to nightmares. But it was bad enough dealing with the Hunger Games on a normal year. The minute the rules for the third Quarter Quell had been announced, Haymitch knew their fates would be forever tied to the way it played out.

 

But he hadn’t been surprised. Plutarch had cornered him at the engagement party in the Capitol, and alluded to it then. He knew there was more going on, and as time had passed, he had learned about the plan. They were going to break them out of the arena, and into the safety of District 13. If any place in Panem could truly be considered safe.

 

Haymitch had gone along with Peeta’s plan to train them all like careers. Even though he knew what was up Plutarch’s sleeve, he recognized it would still be a good idea to get into shape, and to make sure the kids were in shape as well. You never knew when you would have to make a run for it when you did something as stupid as rebel against the government. And they needed to keep the Mockingjay long enough to get her out of that arena.

 

Besides, though he was loath to admit it, it did him good to be under such a strict regiment. He almost felt good again, when he wasn’t surly from the withdrawal of alcohol. He had moments where he almost felt like he did before he won the Games. One night, as Hazelle was finishing up her housework, he even played with the idea of asking her to stay for dinner. He backed out at the last minute, but it was a breakthrough regardless. Maybe there was hope for him yet, if this rebellion thing proved successful. Haymitch wasn’t holding his breath either way.

 

It hadn’t been hard to get the others involved. Finnick and Johanna had been the easiest. He supposed Finnick had been preparing for this for some time, given the way he had his customers pay him in secrets. And Johanna had been ready for a fight since they had killed off her entire family.

 

She reminded him of himself in that way.

 

The day before the interviews, they worked together to iron out the final details. It was hard, since everything about the training center was under surveillance. Mostly, they spoke to each other in code. But Plutarch knew enough about the cameras and the bugs to enable them to work around them.

 

“Remember,” Haymitch had told the group going into the arena, “we have to get the boy out, too, if we’re going to succeed with this. She won’t do it without him.”

 

“Are we playing up the Star-crossed Lovers act, too?” Finnick asked.

 

“Something like that,” Haymitch agreed.

 

“Bet she’ll be happy when that whole thing is over with,” Finnick said.

 

“Maybe not as much as you think,” Haymitch replied. He had seen the way she looked at the kid lately, especially the previous night when they had shared what they’d done for the Gamemakers. It was becoming less and less of an act as time went on.

 

“I’ll be glad when this is all over with, and I can stop pretending to like her,” Johanna piped up. “That tacky defender-of-the-weak thing makes me sick. But you should have seen her face when I stripped in front of her boyfriend,” she grinned.

 

“Remember what we’re doing, Johanna,” Haymitch warned her, but he had to allow a grin despite himself. Johanna was nothing if not brutally honest, and he had always appreciated that about her. He silently hoped that nothing would happen to that in the arena, and she would make it out along with the rest of them.

  
  
  
  
  
  


If the weeks leading up to the Quell had been a nightmare, it was nothing compared to the past month they had been in Thirteen. The rules here were strict -- because an entire population had to be kept alive on minimal resources, only the most absolute of necessities were allowed. Which meant that liquor was out of the question. Haymitch was forced off the sauce cold turkey from the moment they landed the hovercraft.

 

And oh, how he had needed a drink after the rescue from the arena. Especially with how unhinged Katniss was behaving over the news of Peeta’s fate. His face still smarted from the strike she had taken. He had been angry over the attack--he was still less than thrilled over the memory of it, but the girl was on suicide watch. Whatever lingering feelings of resentment over the issue remained had to be shoved aside to make sure the damned girl didn’t off herself. He had seen to it that Katniss and Finnick were properly situated in the hospital ward before he’d slipped off for some time alone, and that was when he had made the awful discovery. A sense of panic had risen up in him, but years of practice had helped him shove it aside. He only hoped it would remain as easy as the days went on. Otherwise, he may be begging for the same morphling they were using on Katniss and Finnick.

 

No. It couldn’t come to that. He would have to do everything he could to stay on top of things, no matter how hard it may be.

 

It was hardest at night, when the nightmares hit. He still had his knife, which he had retrieved when he went to survey the damage on Twelve, and that provided some comfort. But he craved the sweet comfort of alcohol. Without it, he knew he was seeing the same images as Katniss, as Finnick. The broken, mangled bodies of those he had been unable to save.. Who knew what they were doing to them? He felt the most haunted by the boy and Johanna, since he was directly involved in the rescue from the arena, and had failed to get to them in time. “You’ll see, the decisions you’ll have to make,” he had told Katniss on the Victory Tour. And it was true--the sad reality of a mentor and revolutionary alike. But that didn’t make it easy. He felt guilt over Finnick’s girl, Annie, too, even though he knew there was nothing he could have done there. He hadn’t even been involved in anything to do with Four. Haymitch found himself occasionally slipping morphling pills out of the hospital ward, just to get a good night’s sleep.

 

Eventually, the withdrawal symptoms began to ease. As the haze began to lift from his mind, it became easier to assist in strategizing for the war, which had broken out basically the moment the force field in the arena had exploded. Putting his mind to use also had the added bonus of easing the anxiety that still plagued him. The nights began to get easier. So long as he was contributing, feeling like he was doing something useful to help the cause, it was easier to relax. And the look on Katniss’s face when she realized he wasn’t half-dying from the alcohol withdrawal had given him the best laugh he’d had in ages.

 

They had it out the following day, after he had called a meeting that had resulted in the decision to send her to Eight. Each said the things they knew the other had been thinking, and with Katniss’s admission that she had let down her end of the deal as well, he could tell they were on the same page.

 

“I play it over and over in my head. What I could have done to keep him by my side without breaking the alliance. But nothing comes to me,” she told him.

 

“You didn‘t have a choice. And even if I could‘ve made Plutarch stay and rescue him that night, the whole hovercraft would‘ve gone down. We barely got out as it was.” When her gray eyes met his, he knew she understood at last.

 

That didn’t stop him from wanting to strangle her when she defied his instructions in Eight, though. Katniss had always done whatever she wanted to do, and come damn near close to being killed for it on several occasions, but this was the first time Haymitch had ever been in a position to command her directly. It was a miracle she and Gale had made it out of the situation at all, let alone as successfully as the mission still ended. He made good and sure she understood she would never do it again. He also enjoyed the extra serving of lunch as he waited for her to awaken before he did so.

 

Things took a turn for the worse after the bombing. Haymitch had thought he would have to put that old knife to use at last, if they refused to listen to him about Peeta’s warning. Fortunately they had, and just in the nick of time, too.

 

“We owe Peeta Mellark our lives,” Coin admitted as the shelter shook violently with each bomb dropped.

 

“Absolutely,” Plutarch piped up, his voice annoyingly cheerful considering the circumstances. If Haymitch hadn’t seen it for himself, he would wonder if Plutarch ever had any mode besides ass-kissing.

 

“It’s a wonder the kid knew at all,” Haymitch muttered. This had the desired effect--both Coin and Plutarch were looking at him now, Coin looking particularly interested.

 

“Yes,” she drew a slow breath of air in. “That is interesting, isn’t it?”

 

It felt like an eternity before they were allowed out of the bunker at last. Damage had been done, but the underground district was still mostly in tact. It was important they get their propos filmed right away, so Snow would know he hadn’t succeeded in destroying them. But as he comforted Katniss during the failed attempt to shoot it, his only surprise was that it had been his arms she wanted to console her.

 

Organizing the rescue was both very difficult and incredibly easy. Haymitch volunteered immediately, but Boggs had pretended not to see his hand. Probably for the better, he told himself, though it did not stop the nagging need to go back for those he had failed to rescue before. He busied himself with the propos at first, and then keeping constant watch for news that they had made it out successfully. Or maybe that they would need reinforcements. Either way, he was ready.

 

When they made it back without help, though, it had been something of a relief to Haymitch. He helped usher the rescue party in, escorting them to the hospital ward. Johanna and Peeta were both still knocked out, whether from sleeping gas or mere exhaustion he wasn’t sure. Annie was the only one awake, trembling in nothing but a bedsheet. The sight of it made Haymitch tremble a bit himself. Gale was there, too, needing bandages for some minor wounds, but otherwise okay. For Katniss’s sake, Haymitch was glad.

 

The feeling didn’t last long.

 

“Hijacking,” they had called it. Haymitch had never seen anything quite like it, which was saying something. By the time he left Katniss’s room in the hospital that night, he found himself fatigued, but not ready for sleep. He stood outside the room Peeta was now in, watching the doctors through a window as they attempted to soothe the boy. Peeta was agitated and frightened of everything that moved, no matter how hard they tried to assure him he was safe. Haymitch forced himself away, knowing it was enough for one night.

 

Once he hit the hallway, the urge that hit him for a drink was the strongest he had felt yet. But there was no place in this dump he would be able to satisfy his thirst. Sleep would be impossible at this rate. His mind searched the listed of possible distractions. Finnick and Annie were undoubtedly still wrapped up in their own private reunion. (He doubted it was that kind of a reunion, but the desire for privacy would be the same.) Plutarch was either in bed himself, or tied up in rebellion business. It would be the same with Beetee. Chaff was gone. That left only one possibility.

 

Johanna’s room was as empty, as quiet as he had feared it would be. In all the frenzy over Peeta’s mental state, she had been given treatment, then left to herself for the night, save for a nurse checking on her every couple hours.. Haymitch was glad he had made the decision to check on her himself, especially once he realized she was still awake. And from the look of it, she was grateful as well. Though she showed it in her own kind of way.

 

“What can I do for you, old man?” she asked with a sardonic grin.

 

“Just thought I’d see how you’re doing,” he answered.

 

“I bet,” she said. “Kid was more than you were expecting, huh?”

 

“Something like that,” he muttered. “How are you holding up?”

 

“I’ve been better,” she said. “It’s about time you broke us out of there.”

 

“You know how it is, Jo,” Haymitch frowned.

 

Johanna frowned herself, the first authentic emotion he’d seen from her since the rescue. “Yeah. Anything to protect the Mockingjay. Don’t think I don’t know he was the one you were really after.”

 

Haymitch wanted to argue, but he couldn’t. It was true, as much as he was loathe to admit it. Certain decisions had to be made in a war, and they had all made the decision to stand behind the Mockingjay. “I tried to get to you in the arena, you know,” he offered.

 

“Yeah. Thanks,” she muttered.

 

Silence fell over them; Haymitch knew there wasn’t much he could say that would alleviate anything Johanna had suffered at the hands of the Capitol. He knew she wouldn’t believe it if he mentioned it, but it pained him every bit as much as it did with Katniss and Peeta to see her like this. Haymitch had always liked Johanna, despite--or maybe because of--her abrasive front. Her family had been murdered after she won the Games in much the same way his own had. In that way, they connected on a level that no one else did.

 

Soft snores drifted to his ears; Haymitch had to allow himself a soft smile when he saw she had fallen asleep. He knew that no victor would ever feel truly safe again, but unlike Peeta, Johanna at least knew the odds were low that Haymitch would try to kill her here. Just as long as she refrained from launching at him, claws bared, as Katniss had, she would be fine. Feeling slightly more at ease himself, Haymitch leaned his head against the wall, and allowed sleep to overtake him at last.

  
  
  
  
  


“Do you want to know who else won’t be there?”

 

The ghastly-looking, almost skeleton of a girl frowned up at him with empty eyes. “No,” she answered in a hollow voice. “I want to be surprised.”

 

That was fine with Haymitch, since he didn’t really feel like delivering the news anyway. These last few months had taken a toll on him. First the hijacking. Then the assault on the city, resulting in the loss of many people Haymitch had grown to actually like. The bombs which had driven him to the bottle once more. It had been such a dirty move. By the time Katniss’s arrow had missed and struck down Coin instead, Haymitch was already working out in his mind how they would defend the girl. Based on the rabid look in her eyes as they dragged her away from Peeta, he knew they could make an easy case for insanity. The trial was full of all the pomp and circumstances he expected, especially with Plutarch leading the defense.

 

He checked on Peeta in between meetings, who was making progress under the watchful eye of Dr. Aurelius. He’d had a particularly vicious episode the night of the execution, but now he seemed to be getting a handle on it. He asked Haymitch every time he saw him about Katniss, whom Haymitch was quite certain was trying to kill herself in that prison of a room they had locked her away in. But every day the reports indicated she was still alive, and this was the part he told Peeta. Anything else, and he was afraid he’d set the boy back drastically.

 

But even Haymitch hadn’t been prepared for the sight of the emaciated shell of a body waiting for him in the training center when the trial was over at last. It was clear she didn’t want to follow him out of there, but she put up surprisingly little fight over it. Maybe there just wasn’t enough strength left inside of her to do so.

 

That would make two of them.

 

Being back in Twelve again was an eerie feeling. They weren’t the first ones there by a longshot--a small group had returned almost immediately after the war had ended, and set to work on clearing out the debris. He was grateful for that. It was one less thing he would have to oversee. As they crossed the green to her home, he pretended not to notice the way she looked at the darkened windows of Peeta’s house. Tried not to look himself. Once inside, Katniss looked around blankly before she settled in a rocking chair in the kitchen. Her empty gaze turned towards the fireplace.

 

“Well, see you tomorrow,” Haymitch said awkwardly, but even as he did so, something in the back of his mind whispered, _I doubt it_.

 

Just a short journey back across the green, and at last he was back in the familiar rooms of his assigned house. Haymitch kept it together enough to somehow make sure the door was locked, and then stumble over to the couch in the formal living room, before he let himself go at last. That familiar feeling of suffocating anxiousness, the burning threat of vomit in his throat, spurred by a kind of hysteria he’d been keeping at bay for months. All in the name of keeping it together long enough to get them out of the war, to help the people he still cared about somehow make it out alive. But he couldn’t hold it in any longer. It was over, and everyone who needed it was under the watchful eye of someone else.

 

Everyone, except, perhaps, for him.

 

Haymitch lost track of the time as he gave in and drank more heavily than he had ever drank in his life. Only the raw fire of the white liquor could combat the scarred landscape of his mind. When it was just right, it lifted his spirits enough to make life feel almost bearable. When he went too long without a drink, things felt even worse than before. But he was an expert at timing it by now, knowing just how long to let it wear off to be lulled into fitful sleep.

 

No one came by, and Haymitch preferred it that way. The only disturbance was that fucking phone that would ring without end. He came awfully close to ripping it out of the wall a second time, cursing Effie for ever talking him into installing the damn thing again. Whoever it was, he didn’t want to talk to them. He doubted they wanted to talk to him much, either. Once or twice, the thought occurred to him to go check on Katniss, but he never quite made it. She had Greasy Sae, anyway. And from the look of it, he noticed as he stared out his front window one morning, bleary eyed, she had Peeta as well. So the kid had made it back after all. He couldn’t say he was surprised. Just as he wasn’t surprised that the first place he stopped was at her house.

 

Haymitch was drinking at his table in the kitchen a few hours later, when the knock came at the door. He didn’t even bother to move. He knew who it was. He just didn’t care.

 

“I know you’re in there, Haymitch!” Peeta yelled. Haymitch tried to ignore it, but the little tyrant wouldn’t take no for an answer. Eventually, the pounding grew to be too much for Haymitch’s throbbing head. He practically ripped the door off its hinges as he opened it.

 

“Well, look who’s back,” he said sarcastically.

 

“You’re drunk,” Peeta frowned.

 

“You’re surprised?” Haymitch tried to snarl, but it only came out as tired and frustrated.

 

Peeta tilted his head, peering around Haymitch and into the house. His nose wrinkled as he took a sniff. “So all that work Hazelle put in, and it’s gone to waste, huh?” He asked, accusing blue eyes turned back on Haymitch.

 

“Hazelle has moved up in the world, kid,” he shot back, feeling irritated. It was true--Gale had taken a job in Two not long after the war had ended, and his entire family had followed. There was no one here to clean his house now.

 

“Sober up,” Peeta said. “We’ll clean it tomorrow.”

 

“A couple of months with the head doctor, and you think you’re ready to preach to the rest of us, huh, kid?” Haymitch regretted the comment as soon as he saw the look in Peeta’s eyes. “Tomorrow, then,” he said more softly. Peeta nodded, and Haymitch closed the door, much gentler this time, as the boy walked down the stairs.

 

The phone rang almost immediately after the door closed. Haymitch rolled his eyes, but decided he might as well answer it now. He was on a role with this social stuff today. “What?” he asked gruffly into the receiver.

 

“What the hell have you been doing?” Johanna sounded like her old self, at least.

 

“Recovering,” Haymitch said. “What can I do for you, sweetheart?”

 

“You can start by never calling me that again.”

 

Haymitch had to smile. He knew Johanna hated the nickname almost as much as Katniss did. Though unlike Katniss, she would counter it with a sarcastic remark of her own, and then they would laugh it off.

 

“I’ll see what I can do,” he answered. “What else? I know that can’t be the only reason you called.”

 

There was an uncharacteristic silence on the other end for a brief moment before Johanna answered. “I called to see how you were doing.”

 

“Me?” Haymitch scoffed. “I’m dealing with things the way I always do.”

 

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Johanna admitted softly. Then she switched back to her usual brass demeanor. “Look, Haymitch, if you need me to come out there to keep an eye on you…”

 

Haymitch had to laugh. “Don’t worry. The kid is already on my case. He’ll have me on the straight and narrow by tomorrow.” Then a thought occurred to him. “But if you need to come out, Jo…”

 

Johanna showed up a few weeks later. She was a nice counter to the strict, watchful eye of Peeta, though he softened up once he saw Johanna had arrived. Eventually he left them alone almost entirely, turning his attention fully on his own recovery, and spending time with Katniss. It proved a good move to let Johanna come out to Twelve to stay with him. She didn’t enforce a strong drinking policy the way Peeta did, but he found himself drinking less regardless. He even found himself answering Dr. Aurelius’s calls when they came. Johanna left a few weeks later, but returned a month after that. Then she began to come and go regularly, each stay a little longer than the last. They laughed at the way Katniss and Peeta danced around each other, delaying the inevitable (though deep inside, both knew it was for the better that they were trying to heal before they even tried to start something with each other). She stayed by his side when even alcohol couldn’t make the painful memories dull enough. And when the loneliness seemed more than either of them could handle, they had each other.

 

Eventually the night came when Haymitch agreed to contribute to that memory book Katniss and Peeta had been working on. It seemed to help them, and that made Haymitch curious. At first it was hard, digging into the places of his memory he had locked away ages ago. But eventually they came. Maysilee. His family and girl. First one lost tribute, and then another, and another until they were all preserved in those pages, ensured that they would never be forgotten. And Haymitch remembered them all. The names came quicker as he became absorbed with the work. Katniss recorded every word, and Peeta sketched their likeliness. Johanna watched, silent with the weight of reverence. She didn’t say it, but Haymitch could see her debating in her mind whether to contribute herself. Johanna had lost tributes, too.

 

“Anything else you want to add?” Katniss asked him when the last of the memories had been recorded.

 

Haymitch looked around the small group before he answered. “Just one thing,” he told them. “Stay alive.”


End file.
